24 Hours
by Ludi
Summary: Rogue & Remy meet again after 3 years in the middle of London and have just 24 hours to catch up. But will it be long enough for them to get past their differences and fall in love again? Rated for themes of a sexual nature. AU.
1. Part One

A note to X-Fans and other readers:- 

There will most likely be references made to events in this story that won't make a blind bit of sense.  The reason for this is that this story is based on my own personal X-Men universe.  It's part of a larger story that's not entirely been written because I'm generally fickle when it comes to writing fanfic.  However, don't let that put you off.  What matters is the lurve, right? ;)

IMPORTANT NOTE: - I had a bit of a crisis with this one.  On the one hand this is a very plot-based story; on the other hand it features (in the second chapter) some pretty graphic sexual content – nothing smutty, of course, and always in the best of taste ;)  But seeing as it was nothing like most of the fiction on Adultfanfiction.net, I decided to post it here**_.  If you are under the legal age in your area, please read chapter 2 with caution, okay?  Promise?_**

So that's my rant over.  Enjoy folks!

**24 Hours**

****

            More than three years had passed since the Destiny saga.

            Since Rogue had left the X-Men, the group had slowly undergone more changes, with many of its team members also packing up and leaving for destinations unknown.  Piotr and Kitty had set up home together in Chicago, while Jubilee had left to study engineering in college.  After the unfortunate death of Lorna Dane, Iceman too had left to go his own separate way.  Hank had taken up a teaching post at the Massachusetts academy.  Nightcrawler had gone to take up a parish in Germany.  Of the core team's original members based at the Westchester Mansion, only Cyclops, Phoenix, Storm and an ever-transient Logan were left.  Times had changed.  The X-Men were no longer considered outlaws, but heroes.  The mutant 'problem', while still far from being resolved, was now being discussed without the inflammatory rhetoric of the anti-mutant lobbyists.  While anti-mutant sentiment was still generally felt on a widespread scale, it was no longer as vehement.  The X-Men no longer needed to fight the battles they had once been so accustomed to.

            Remy himself had left the X-Men not long after Rogue had.  There had been little reason for him to stay after her departure – but he had remained for a while to pick up the various shattered pieces Destiny had left amongst the teams, as well as out of a lingering sense of loyalty.  Soon afterward, there had been a general consensus that Rogue's decision to leave and start a new life had been an astute one.  Lives had been changed – the call of duty no longer seemed to apply.  True to his nature, Remy had been the first to lead the mass exodus from the X-Men.  The Professor had not tried to stop those who wanted to go from going.  He had even expected it.  He had quietly thanked Remy for staying behind to sort things out after the crisis, and had simply wished him the best of luck in his future endeavours.  Of course, the Professor had always known of Remy's wayward nature, and that he had stayed in the mansion under great sufferance since Rogue was no longer there.  Besides, Remy had nothing left to offer the X-Men.  He had other things to do with his life – what they were exactly he wasn't sure; but he figured it was time he found out.

            There was only one thing he was really going to miss about leaving, and that was Ororo.  For the longest time she was the only one who he had considered a true friend amongst the X-Men.  While their relationship had never been especially deep, there had always been a bond, an affinity between them that had remained intact despite all the various troubles over the years.  Sometimes, Remy pondered, it was easier to tell a real friend from a false one when you didn't have to say anything and they would understand you.  That was the bond he shared with Ororo.  And that was why neither of them had been too worried that they might not see each other again for a considerable while.  Both were secure in the knowledge that when their paths _did cross again, the old friendship would still remain._

            And so Remy had left, heading back for New Orleans.  With him had come Belladonna, who had also decided to leave the X-Men – feeling, no doubt, that her tenuous ties there had always rested with Remy anyway.  Together they set to work unifying the Thieves and Assassins Guilds – Bel taking most of the administrative work, Remy the official mantel of Guild leader.  The idea of it had never entirely appealed to him before, but he decided it was time for him to take up what was rightfully his and make some sort of bash at it.  Strangely – once he'd got past the certain animosities towards him from both the Thieves and the Assassins quarters – he found he'd actually liked it.  It was certainly a different world from the erratic, risky one he'd always lived in, the thief's life on the edge.  But, after his ordeal at the hands of Destiny, he found that it was what he needed – some sort of stability, something to work for, something to care about.  It was certainly something he had found difficulty getting used to at first, and without Bel's partnership he certainly would have floundered, but somehow he coped and managed to make good.

            As for Bel herself, he could not have asked for what he might previously have called a better 'partner in crime'.  Once the previous hostility that their split had conjured up had been passed, they managed to get along like a house on fire.  Remy knew that Bel still secretly haboured strong feelings for him and that her hope was that someday they might get back together again.  Remy himself had actually entertained the idea on several occasions only to finally decide against it.  While he still cared deeply for Bel, his heart was simply no longer in any form of commitment, much less marriage; and besides, he told himself, his heart already belonged to someone else – a sad state of affairs for a former thief of hearts.

            That of course, didn't stop him from having short-lived affairs of his own, much to Belladonna's chagrin.

            It was one thing for Remy to keep up his boyish philandering; it was another entirely for him to attend to Guild business.  Usually Remy had no problems attending to both at the same time – it was, he always insisted, a talent born from his natural flare for style.  How he managed to win women's hearts while attempting to get himself out of precarious situations had always been instinctive to him and yet at the same time rather beyond him.  He'd always avoided questioning it for fear that one day he might lose his charm.  Today though, the ability to mix pleasure with business seemed to have eluded him.  It was, to say the least, rather distressing to him.

            He had been in London two days, on what he had always liked to call 'fam'ly business' during his days with the X-Men.  One night, and he'd wrapped everything up rather nicely but also rather abruptly.  The 'trouble' he'd been expecting hadn't turned out to be a trouble after all, and so he was left with a full day doing nothing before he had to catch his flight back to the US the following afternoon.  He had been unable to sleep the night before.  Early in the morning he'd left his hotel room, dressed in a casual suit yet still unshaved and bleary eyed, to wander about the city, have some coffee and read a newspaper.  He'd ended up going on a cafe-crawl, finding that he'd needed more caffeine than he'd previously thought, and realising that he was in dire need of some cheering up.  His surroundings weren't exactly helping.  It wasn't that London was an ugly place – on the contrary it was quite the opposite.  There was something about it though, that made him feel nostalgic.  The old, ostentatious grey buildings, the relatively narrow, winding streets, the pokey little alleyways and the quaint little parks.  One could get lost in this city, lost in maze of roads and antiquated architecture and never know where one was, nor even care.  And though there was something romantic and compelling about the whole idea, it was not something that Remy needed at the present moment in time.

            He had decided to plug himself firmly into the cosmopolitan core of the city, finding a small park to find refuge in, sitting down on a bench that faced the fountain in the square's center.  It was an odd place, an encapsulated world of its own, noisy, surrounded by the bustling streets of Central London, yet at the same time strangely divorced from it.  In the center pigeons were happily taking a morning bath in the fountain; a line of ducks were waddling across a patch of grass towards God knew where.  In the corner was a cafe – a large migration of dark suited commuters were making their way there to grab their morning coffee before heading on to work.  Remy had sat there watching them idly, the faces coming and going, nameless, mindless, each one indistinguishable from the last.  He didn't know why he was feeling this way.  It was a form of displacement, and that he wasn't following this herd made him feel even more alienated.  Still, he was content to watch them, while he chewed on a cigarette and considered the previous evening's events.  Even better, the fact that this time tomorrow he'd be preparing to leave the damned place for home.  Spring in New Orleans was temperate.  Spring in London was bloody freezing.

            He was just considering getting up and catching a cab back to his hotel room for warmth, that something caught his eye.  Amidst the flock of faceless commuters was a single person walking against the tide.  It was like watching a fish swimming against a current, and he sat for a moment, oddly entranced and not even knowing why.  It was a woman, walking with such a free easiness and against such adversity that at once he felt drawn to and envious of her.  It was only as she walked past him, and the crowd parted for that one split second that he saw the streak of white in her long flowing hair.  At once he was on his feet, his heart racing at an impossibly wild pace – but already she was lost again amongst the throng.

            For a moment he stood there, reasoning with himself, telling himself that it could have been any old girl with any old white streak in her hair.  But it was a futile battle, because, without a shred of doubt, he somehow _knew_ it was her.  He now realised that every single movement she had made had belonged to _her, and had been displayed there as though just for him – her gait as she walked, the tilt of her head, even the way her hair had flowed behind her, he had all been able to read them like some secret prearranged message._

            Suddenly breathless he plunged into the crowd after her, desperation welling in him, fighting against the tide, unable to catch sight of her again.  Stopping he searched again, scanning the crowds intently before that glimpse of white amongst brown shown out like a beacon to him.  This time he didn't waste a moment, hurrying through the myriad conspiracy of heads and bodies and elbows towards that single streak of white.  And suddenly he was behind her, a blaze of red and brown and orange amongst the blacks and blues and navys, and once more he knew, without a shred of doubt, that it was her.

            "Rogue?"

            He was too far to reach out for her, but not for his suddenly weakened voice to carry.  She paused and turned, and for a moment he thought that it wasn't her and that he had only been imagining things in his nostalgic state.  But as she finally faced him, all doubt was swept away.  Those same familiar green eyes looked back into his from that same familiar round face – a little older, a little wiser, but still the same.  And he can't have looked much different too, because the eyes grew wide with recognition, the wind-bitten cheeks grew pink, the soft red lips opened in amazement.

            "Remy?" she spoke, and it was the same familiar voice with that same familiar old Southern accent, tempered only slightly by British tones. "Is that you?"

            He took in a sharp breath, his mind reeling.

            "_Mon Dieu, Rogue, it __is you."_

            They stared at one another for one split second before she suddenly gave out a cry, the lips widened into a broad smile and she laughed out loud in delight.

            "Mah God, mah God, mah God!" she cried, hardly able to contain her excitement and flinging her arms about him. "Remy LeBeau, Remy!"

            She hugged him fiercely, and he could only contain his wits just in time to return the embrace.  She called his name a few more times, deliriously almost, as though this were a dream she could not quite wake up from; then she let go of him, stepping back to take him in, her smile so big he didn't even know how it could fit on her face.

            "Well, of all the places to meet up!" she cried breathlessly. "What in tarnation are _you doin' here?"_

            "I was gonna ask de same t'ing of you," he spoke, equally bemused, looking her over once or twice.  He realised now why it had been so easy to spot her out – dressed as she was, she had stood out from the businessmen and women like a sore (but very beautiful, he mentally added) thumb.  Her ensemble was more bohemian than he remembered it – flared red pants, an orange crop top, and only a thick, long crimson cardigan and a soft brown scarf to ward off the cold.  He hadn't remembered since when she'd been into knitwear, but then again, who knew what kind of British fashions might be rubbing off onto her nowadays?

            "You look…great," he added instinctively, despite the fortuitous and unexpected manner of their meeting.  She laughed.  God, how he'd missed that laugh – and that smile.

            "You never change," she commented slyly.

            "What, dis cajun?  Change his spots?  You know me better, chere." He grinned.

            "Good enough to know when not to fall for _that _smile, sugah." She grinned back.

            Here we go, he thought wryly, two minutes into meetin' each other again an' we're already flirtin' like there be no tomorrow.

            "So what're you doin' here," he asked, feeling he should make normal conversation. "I mean, s'been, what, three years since…"

            "Three years and two months," she interjected, a little too quickly.  He caught the minutest of blushes on her cheeks. "Ah'm studyin' at Birkbeck College.  Doin' a degree in Psychology.  Ah'd always been kinda interested in it, an' well…after everythin'…" She paused, a little uncertain of what to say, "…Ah figured maybe ah'd be good at it."

            "Came to England to study Psychology?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

            She bit her lip, looking down at her feet. "Ah needed a change in scene.  Ah'd heard London was a pretty cool place. An' ah'm not just talkin' 'bout the weather," she joked, a little awkwardly. "Coulda gone to Paris, but well…Ah guess ah kinda preferred to speak my own native language."

            "I see," he nodded. "An' how's it goin'?  The degree I mean?"

            "Great," she smiled. "This is mah last year.  Hopefully ah graduate in the summer."

            "Cool."

            "Yeah."

            There was a silence.  Remy fumbled desperately for something to say.  They had been apart for too long.  Now he felt the palpable gulf between them, the awkwardness that time and distance had put between them.  Upon first meeting her, the sparks had flown both ways.  And now…Now he was left feeling strangely cold, apprehensive, even.  Why was it always so easy for them to flirt but never to get down to talking about real things?  

            "So," he began again, after a short moment. "You goin' to class?"

            "Nah," she shook her head. "I don't start for another two hours or so.  Ah was gonna meet a friend for breakfast."

            "Oh."

            "But hey!  If you're hangin' round, then we should definitely meet up sometime.  How does that sound?"

            "I'm leavin' tomorrow."

            "Oh. Well…How 'bout ah cancel breakfast with mah friend and we can have a coffee together?"

            Coffee?  If he had another coffee he'd probably die.  He was wired enough as it was.

            "I'd love to, chere," he answered quickly, before he had time to think about it. "But your friend…?"

            She made a brushing off motion with one hand, reaching into her bag for her cellphone with the other. "Don't worry, he won't mind.  Ah mean, ah get t' see him practic'ly every day, and when was the last time I saw_ you_?"

            She dialled a number quickly on her phone, while Remy chewed on this new bit of information, unable to stop himself from feeling jealous even though he knew it was irrational.  So what if she had a male friend?  So what if she was having breakfast with him?  It was a free country, right?  And besides, the two of them hadn't been together for over three years.  Still, he couldn't help but feel envious when he heard her talk to her friend with such casual familiarity.

            "Pete?  Hey, sugah!  Yeah, ah'm fine.  Yeah, the tube was hell, but ah made it.  Huh, Don't ah know it…Hey lissen.  D' you mind if we pass on the breakfast this mornin'?  See, I met an old friend from the States, haven't seen him for three years an' he's leavin' tomorrow so…Is that okay?  Sure?  Okay, thanks Pete, ah owe you one.  Yeah, ah know, only kiddin'.  Okay, see you soon then.  Take care.  Bye!"

            She switched off the phone, beaming up at him.

            "Sorted!"

            "Pete?" he repeated darkly.

            "Classmate," she explained, before smiling coyly at him. "Remy LeBeau, are you jealous?"

            "Wit' you, _belle_, who wouldn't be?" he answered innocently.

            "Ah'm flattered," she smiled, linking her arm in his and leading him away at a slow pace. "But ah'm also footloose an' fancy free at the moment, so you don't need to worry."

            "Who says I'm worryin', chere?" he played along, but inwardly frowning.

            "Every part of you but your own mouth, sugah," she replied playfully, but there was an undercurrent to her voice. "An' by the way," she lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Do you still go by the codename Gambit?"

            "On the odd occasion," he replied with mock seriousness. "An' do you still go by de codename Rogue in dese backwater parts?"

            She laughed. "My name round here is Anna," she answered. "No one here knows ah was ever the Rogue.  Can you imagine the butterflies ah got when ah heard you call me by _that name?  That was some blast from the past y' gave me there, cajun.  Ah thought it was the cops or somethin'."_

            "I still give you butterflies, chere?" he asked smoothly, gazing at her and raising an eyebrow suggestively. She retaliated by elbowing him playfully in the side.

            "Ah'll give _you_ butterflies, mistah," she levelled at him.

            "Not a problem, chere," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his side comically. "Y' still do."

*

            She led him to some quiet cafe in some unknown back street, all the while chatting to him with the easy confidence of a woman who had found her place in the world and saw no reason to deviate from the path she had laid out for herself.  He was content to listen to her for most of the time, amused as well as comforted by the familiar huskiness of that voice he knew so well, softened ever so slightly by the more moderate English tones.  She spoke with an exuberance that he almost envied – he felt almost embarrassed to admit that while she had been seeing and doing things she had always dreamed of, he'd somehow come to be stuck in what he considered a very deep rut.

            "So, you never answered me," she spoke up, once she'd settled down to a cup of coffee and he, wisely, to a simple glass of orange juice. "What're you doin' over here?"

            "Fam'ly business, chere," he replied, checking for a no-smoking sign before lighting up. "You know how it goes."

            "Still with the Guild then, ah take it" she mused, staring at him. "Ain't you given that up by now?"

            It took him a moment to realise she was talking about the smoking.

            "Ah, non.  One day, perhaps."

            "That's what you always said," she remarked archly.

            "I'm 'fraid dis fool ain't changed much," he admitted in a blase tone, nevertheless feeling a little embarrassed by the admission.

            "Ah can see that." The corner of her mouth twisted into a smile.

            "You, on the other hand…"

            "Ah'd be lyin' if ah said ah hadn't," she shrugged, her tone airy; but it was not hard for him to catch the deeper, edgy note to her voice.  Rapidly she changed the subject. "So if you're on 'business', how comes ah find you sittin' in Russell Square all by your lonesome?"

            "I wrapped up earlier den expected," he replied, exhaling smoke a little absently from his mouth. "Decided to take an early mornin' wander round, y'know, see de sights."

            "Oh yeah?  What'd you see?"

            "Hm," He frowned momentarily. "Not much.  I got lost."

            She chuckled. "Ah hear that.  London's all curves and nooks and crannies.  Easy to get lost, unless you know your way round."

            "Sounds like a woman," he remarked, unable to help himself, and not really regretting that he had said it.

            "Thought you'd be used to it, what with N'awlins an' all," she replied smoothly, and he wasn't sure whether she was talking about the women or the streets.

            "T'ank God for de grid system," he answered, thinking it was safer to pursue that trail of conversation.

            "Ah dunno," she smiled. "It's kinda nice sometimes.  You can start somewhere an' explore a bit, an' end up finding yourself somewhere you never thought you'd end up.  Somewhere fun.  Somewhere…exciting."

            He stared at her, wondering in some consternation whether she was making innuendoes at him or not.  For the first time he found it difficult to read her.

            "Such as…?"

            It was a moment before she answered, during which she gazed at him as innocuously as she could. "Like for instance…The karaoke!" She grinned.

            "You haven't!" he exclaimed.

            "Ah have!" Her eyes sparkled. "Ah know you won't believe me, but it's actually fun.  The woman in the flat next to me, she's Japanese.  Took me there once, kickin' an' screamin'.  But ah liked it.  An'," she winked at him, "ah can actually sing."

            "Now dat's somethin' I gotta hear," he commented slyly.

            "Well, why not?" she paused, thinking for a moment. "Hey!  Ah got a great idea!  Since you got lost an' all, why don't ah take you round for a tour?  Ah know all the good places t' see round here.  The British Museum's just round the corner, y'know."

            "Museum?" he repeated sarcastically. "Unless dey got somethin' I can be stealin', dis t'iefs not never been interested in lookin' at antiques."

            "Not even the Greek statues?" she asked in mock surprise.

            "I prefer my women live and walkin' t'anks very much."

            "Well this woman is.  Ain't that enough for yah?" She didn't give him the chance to answer. "C'mon Remy, it'll be fun.  You can't come here an' not see the sights!"

            "What about school?"

            She waved a hand dismissively. "Sod school.  Ah haven't seen you in years, Remy!  Y' think one day of classes matters to me?  Ah wanna know 'bout everythin' that's happened to you since ah saw you last!"

            "Rogue, you are trés, trés touchin', chere," he replied comically, placing a hand over his heart. "Who else but you would give dis cajun de time of day?"

            "Call me naive," she joked, bringing her cup to her lips. "Maybe – just maybe – one day ah'll learn that you really are the low-life swamp snake ah always knew you were."

            "Not before I get to hear you croon t' me, I hope," he answered, lifting up his own glass and winking.

*

            She took him to so many places that in the end he had no conception of where he actually was in the city.  Museums, bars, cafes, shops, galleries, historical sites; Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, lunch in Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace – she took him to them all; not to mention the karaoke.  She wove in and out of streets like a snake, on and off of subways like a circus monkey, and with all the enthusiasm of one at that.  By the time afternoon had come, he had got the distinct impression that she was showing off and was enjoying things far more than he was himself.  He didn't say anything though – for one thing he felt it his duty to see the sites; for another, it pleased him to see her in her element.  Most of the time he was far more interested in watching her rather than the city, and after a while it didn't even occur to him to feel guilty about it.  She was so much more outgoing, so much more bright-eyed, so much more involved in everyone and everything about her.  It was a change he found refreshing as well as oddly disconcerting.  Rogue had never lacked confidence; but she had always lacked certainty in standing on her own two feet in a world that she had never truly felt welcome in.  Now, with her powers under control and finally able to acquaint herself with the outside world, she had blossomed from the fragile bloom of a personality that she had always been into some big, sunny flower.  He wondered, fleetingly, whether he had been worthy of such changes himself.

            It was pushing on evening by the time Rogue had decided to call it a day.  Remy's exhaustion had not been lost on her, but she had driven him as hard as she had dared, knowing that he would let her get away with it.  Remy had insisted on going back to his hotel room, but she would have none of it, accusing him of attempting to avoid her company even after all this time.  That had not entirely been his intention.  Since they had parted three years before, he had not wanted to impinge on her own private life, assuming that if he stayed overly long in her company she might take offence and think he was taking advantage of her.  They'd spent most of the day so far casually flirting, which under normal circumstances would have been fine, if not for the fact that most of their 'friendship' had been spent flirting, fencing, making a go at relationships, only for them usually to explode disastrously in their faces.  The flirting almost always led to one thing; and_ that_ was the inherent danger that they would both get embroiled in some chaotic – if passionate – attempt to work things out.  And right now, considering the circumstances, he was pretty sure it was something neither of them needed.  What they _wanted though, was a different matter, and as always, tantalisingly ambiguous._

            As it turned out, despite all his misgivings, Remy had found himself taking a bus back to Rogue's apartment.  It would, he concluded, have been rude for him to leave her after they had only just met and with so little time to spare.  But, he warned himself as well as her, he'd need to get back early that night to pack away his things.  A lie, since he'd always travelled lightly, especially when on 'business'; and an empty lie at that, because he also knew that she also knew that he travelled light.  By that time though, both of them knew that they were both playing dangerously close to the edge.  But what could one do, when the etiquette of friendship demanded one thing from them and that of romance demanded another?  First and foremost, Remy said to himself, we're friends, not ex-lovers.  And so he'd decided there was no harm in hanging out together, just as long as they knew when to cut things short.

*


	2. Part Two

IMPORTANT NOTE:- . **_The latter part of this chapter contains content of a (graphic) sexual nature. If you are a minor, please read responsibly._**

       Rogue was now living in a rather nondescript block of apartments on the edge of London – to keep down the rent, she declared, to which he had asked her why she hadn't decided to live in a flat or a house with others.  He had known already how she would answer – that she had never been comfortable living in close proximity to strangers, how she needed her own space, and how she needed to learn how to stand on her own two feet.  It was hard, making ends meet – but she had got a job waitressing on her weekends and days off, and was feeling pretty satisfied with the way things were going.

       The block of flats had looked grotty on the outside – on the inside though it was rather pleasant.  Not impressive certainly, but comfortable.  Rogue's apartment was on the third floor, and since the elevator seemed to be broken (a regular occurrence, as far as Rogue seemed to imply), they had had to take the stairs.  Rogue's room, luckily, was near the stairwell, because by that time Remy thought he was going to drop.

       "Well this is it," she proclaimed, searching her bag for her keys. "Home sweet home."

       Just at that moment the next door down opened and out came a Japanese woman in a dark blue nurse's outfit.  Like most Japanese women she was small and slim, long-bodied and short limbed, her face round and cute, jet-black hair cut into a 1920s style bob.  She stopped when she saw Rogue fumbling with the keys, gaping openly at Remy.  He grinned back.  He was used to that kind of reaction from women.

       "Well, well," the woman explained. "Anna, whatever are we going to do with you?"

       She sidled over, a big sly smile on her face.  At first Remy had thought that she would be the usual kind of Japanese woman he had met before – quiet, courteous, coquettish with an overall tendency to smile and laugh politely at anything anyone said to them.  This woman though, he suspected had lived in England for several years.  The grin, the intonation, the walk – all reminded him of the rather vampish Lila Cheney than Wolverine's ex-wife, Mariko Yoshida.

       Rogue looked up.

       "Hey, Akane.  Going on the night-shift?"

       "Uh-huh." She looked at Remy again, interest sparkling in her dark eyes. "Who's the stranger?"

       "Oops," Rogue scratched her head, still nonplussed at the disappearance of her keys. "How rude o' me.  Remy, this is Akane, next door neighbour and resident party-animal.  Akane, this is Remy, an old – uh – friend."

       "Remy?" She shook his hand in the formal British way. "French?  Belgian…?"

       "Cajun," he replied with a winning smile.

       "Oh, so you're one of Anna's old friends from the States," Akane replied knowingly. "Nice to meet you at last."

       He wondered just how much Rogue had mentioned of her 'old friends from the States'.

       "Pleased t' meet you too, chere."

       She chuckled. "Anna, you didn't mention this one was such a hunk." She turned back to Remy. "Are you single?"

       Whoa!  Were English girls always _this forthright?_

       "Currently unspoken for, but you never know from one day t' de next wit' me."

       "He got that right," Rogue spoke up rather acidly from the sidelines. "Dammit!"

       "Something wrong, dearie?" Akane asked, seeing Rogue's frustration. 

       "Mah keys are missin'.  Ah'm sure ah took them with me when ah left this mornin'."

       "That's because you _did_," Akane remarked comically, digging into a certain pocket in Rogue's cardigan and producing the bunch of keys before wiggling them in front of her face. "Or did you forget that you put them there because you kept on losing them in your bag?"

       "Akane, you're a life-saver!" Rogue cried, snatching the keys.

       "Well, with _that_ to distract you," she jabbed a thumb in Remy's direction. "I think I can safely let you off the hook."

       "Well, there y' go, Remy," Rogue arched an eyebrow at him. "Ah do believe you've met your match."

       "Y' know I only have eyes for you, chere," he replied just as playfully.

       "Don't y' sass me none, Gam-, Remy," she shot back, eyes narrowing.

       "Whoa guys," Akane interjected humorously. "I'm getting a whiff of _way too many pheromones here!" She leaned in confederately to Rogue. "Is he the ex you were talking about?"_

       "Shut up!" Rogue replied hotly, turning away and stabbing the key into the door.

       "He is, isn't he!" the Japanese woman exclaimed, grinning. "Don't worry Anna – my lips are sealed."

       "It's no big deal," Remy put in, sticking up for Rogue and shrugging. "We broke up years back, no hard feelin's.  Right, _Anna?"_

       "Right," Rogue mumbled, not looking at him.

       "In that case," Akane replied, smiling at him. "If you're free sometime…?"

       "Sorry," he answered quickly. "I'm headin' back t' de States tomorrow."

       "Aw, what a shame." She sighed, then looked at her watch. "Well, I'm already bloody late.  You guys have fun, okay?  Ah'll see you in the mornin', Anna.  And," she held out her hand towards him. "Nice to meet you, Remy."

       "You too," he nodded, shaking her hand vigorously.

       "See ya," Rogue called, as Akane finally made off towards the stairwell.  When she had disappeared down the steps Rogue let out a sigh of relief.

       "High maintenance?" he asked.  Her back was still to him.  She had been facing the door ever since Akane had mentioned 'ex'.

       "High maintenance," Rogue affirmed, pushing the door open and switching on the lights.

       The interior was certainly Rogue-ish.  It was the only way Remy could find to describe it.  Not plain, but not frilly; serviceable but at the same time whimsical.  Everything had been set out in a roomy and spacious order, clean, neat, tidy.  And then Rogue had gone over it in her own southern fashion, splashing her own bits of messy colour in the form of cushions and curtains and throws and paintings.  Books, CDs, magazines were strewn here, there and everywhere.  On the walls were various posters, photographs and notes; on the mantelpiece were displayed a plethora of teddy bears.

       Rogue was oddly silent as she entered into the room and removed her cardigan and scarf; odd because she had been chattering away most of the day without stopping.  Remy slid into the room shutting the door quietly behind him.  No doubt about it, this was Rogue's domain.  Again that strange sense of comfort washed over him.

       "Make yourself at home," she spoke, dumping her bag on the settee and moving towards the kitchen. "Want anything to drink?"

       He moved to the nearest wall, where she had set up a display of movie posters, photos and sketches.  The sketches were in pencil, very rough, but somehow attractive.  Mostly they were random pictures of people and faces, trees and details of certain flowers.  Intermingled between the drawings were several photos – Rogue with different people he did not recognise.  None of them were of her friends amongst the X-Men.  Go figure, he thought.  There was one of her and Akane with several other girls he presumed were friends, having some sort of party.  And another, of her with an arm about a brown-haired man.  He could not help the shot of jealousy that streaked through him, inwardly scolding himself for feeling the way he did.  Her life, her choice he said to himself.  So what if she had been seeing another man?  It should have been enough for him to see that in every one of those photographs, she was smiling with genuine happiness.

       "Remy?" Her voice called him from the kitchen.

       "Hmm?"

       "What d'you want t' drink?"

       "Uh…What've you got?"

       "Tea, coffee, water, soda…Wine.  Want some wine?"

       "Fine by me," he replied, perusing the sketches again.

       It was a moment before she re-entered, a bottle half-filled with Chardonnay and two glasses in her hands.  She was smiling broadly again.

       "Leftovers from the get-together me an' the gals had on Friday night," she explained, setting everything down on the coffee table. "I never knew Brit gals drank so much!" She paused, turning to look back at him when he did not answer. "Oh," she actually blushed. "Lookin' at mah sketches?"

       "They're yours?" He looked up at her, surprised.

       "Yeah," she bent over, uncorking the bottle and pouring the wine into the glasses. "Not half as good as Piotr's, ah know."

       "Actually they're nice," he said, assessing them again. "They're…you.  Didn't know you had dat kinda talent."

       "Neither did ah," she replied, half-smiling. "Although ah don't think it's any kinda proper talent.  Ah just like t' do it. S' hobby, ah guess."

       "An' how did you discover dis new hobby, eh?"

       "Oh, mah therapist suggested it.  Ah liked the idea, so ah took an art minor in mah first year at college.  It was fun." Her voice was pleasant, but somehow sad. "Whenever ah'm feelin' a little down, ah do a bit of drawin'.  Makes me feel like ah'm puttin' mah emotions somewhere, y'know?"

       "Yeah," he answered, not really knowing what to say.  It had disconcerted him to hear her talk so suddenly of 'therapists', 'emotions' and 'feeling down', but it did not surprise him.  These were the things, after all, that had first led her to leave the X-Men after their ordeal with Destiny had ended.  In fact, when she had left she had been feeling more than just a little 'down'.  It was one of the primary reasons as to their agreement to separate.  Though the split-up had been amicable, Remy had always felt that if Destiny had not so manipulated Rogue then they would still have been together.  He resented Destiny for hurting Rogue in the way she had, but there had been no point in brooding over it.  Destiny was dead, and Rogue had made her decision.  He had agreed it was best for the both of them to make a clean break.  Rogue had needed to deal with her own wounds on her own terms and in her own time.  He would only have gotten in the way.

       It was with a sense of regret that he finally walked over to the settee to join her.  He had figured it was long past the time where he should be wondering why their relationship had always ended up going wrong just when it was going right.  It was easier to let go of things when they were apart.  But being here with her now, things weren't so simple.  He was beginning to think it was a mistake that he had come here after all.

       "So," he began awkwardly, trying to quiet the turn of his thoughts. "Seems you've been havin' a fun time over here." He looked back over his shoulder at the photographs.

       "Yeah," she half-smiled. "One thing ah gotta say 'bout London – there's never a dull moment."

       I bet, he thought sourly, eyeing the picture of her and the brown-haired guy again.  He wished he'd stop feeling so damn jealous.  She followed his gaze, seeing the look on his face.

       "That's Pete," she said, her tone quiet yet even.

       "Oh," he answered, trying to sound nonchalant but not succeeding.

       "We were an item – for a while," she continued honestly, though perhaps a little nervously. "But y'know…we were more friends than lovers, so it didn't work out.  We still hang out though.  Saw no reason not to remain friends."

       "Makes sense," he replied, an inkling of emotion he could not tell in his voice.

       "How 'bout you," she asked, "You meet anyone?"

       He managed to look back at her. "No one serious," he admitted.

       "Oh." It was her turn to look somewhat embarrassed. "Want anything to eat?" she changed the subject.

       "I'm not hungry, t'anks."

       "Drinkin' wine ain't good without somethin' to soak it down," she remarked, to which he couldn't help but laugh.

       "You're turnin' so…European." He grinned. "I like it."

       "Really?" she played along. "Ah thought you only liked the southern belle in me."

       "Southern belle has its merits, chere," he returned, drinking the wine. "But so does European."

       "What you mean as in vampy li'l black dresses an' unabashed seductiveness?"

       "Exactly," he said, raising his glass. "De Parisian girls know how t' wear their li'l black dresses." He sighed whimsically.

       "Kind of ironic that you're bringin' out the southern belle in me again, cajun," she grinned.

       "You been away from de US too long, chere," he answered seriously.

       "Ah'll be back soon enough." 

       "I'll hold you t' that."

       Silence.

       "So, you're leader of the Unified Guilds now," she spoke at last. "How's that?"

       "Not bad, I s'ppose," he replied, looking into his glass before setting it down. "Not how I expected t'ings to turn out, but then again, I don't t'ink I ever expected anythin' outta dis life in de first place." He raised his head, smiled. "But, all t'ings considered, I'm pretty much happy."

       "S'good to hear," she returned warmly. "An' how's Bel?"

       "Same old Bel," he replied with a wry smile. "One o' dese days de _fille's gonna frown herself t' death.  Wish I could make her smile again, like she used to, in de old days.  Y'know, I kinda feel dat everythin'…it's all my fault."_

       "Things turned out the way they did," she replied softly. "Bel understands that."

       "She still loves me, Rogue," he sighed. "She knows it ain't gonna happen anymore, but she still keeps hopin'."

       "Ah can understand that."

       "Love be a complicated t'ing, chere."

       "Yes."

       "An' you?"

       "Huh?"

       "You happy?"

       She smiled wanly. "Happier than ah was," she admitted, not liking to elaborate.

       "You look happier.  Happier than when you left, anyhow." He paused, seeing the look in her eyes. "I was worried 'bout you, Rogue.  You were so upset when you left, I thought dat if you went out into de world alone it'd bury you over an' swallow you.  God knows I woulda done anythin' to help you out, but I knew dat if I did…" He halted again. Dieu, what to say? "You needed to be alone." He finished, feeling that it somehow justified the guilt he felt at agreeing to leave her to fight her own battles.

       "It was what ah wanted," she answered slowly, before staring at him fixedly. "You feelin' guilty, Remy?  There's no need."

       "I know, but…" He stopped, before looking up again. "If anythin' had happened t' you…"

       "It wouldn't have been on your hands."

       "Wouldn't have meant de hurtin' would stop."

       "Ah know."

       He caught it then, that whiff of the old Rogue, fragile, delicate, hiding from the world.  He suddenly wanted to put his arms round her and hold her close.

       "How was de therapy?" he asked, swallowing the emotion.

       "Good," she half-smiled. "Ah needed to vent out.  It was nice, t' talk t' someone who didn't know me, y'know?  Who didn't have any idea of who ah was or where ah came from, who could listen to everythin' ah had t' say objectively.  Just a regular stranger, no strings, no attachments.  Ah needed to purge mahself of all those crazy things that when on in mah past.  To start afresh, to start anew.  S'funny," she lowered her voice. "During those sessions ah'd never cried so much in mah life – yet when ah left them and went out in the real world, ah never knew how much easier it was t' laugh."

       "Laughin' be my speciality," he frowned. "Laugh too much, don' cry enough."

       "Ah'm glad you came, Remy," she said, out of the blue.

       "Yeah?"

       "Yeah." She looked away, playing with a lock of her hair. "Y'know, ever since ah got here ah've been pushin' away the past.  Ah rarely ever spoke 'bout you and the other guys.  Ah…ah didn't want to.  For some reason, it all hurt too much."

       "I can understand that," he replied gently, looking at the photos on the wall again. "In all dose pictures there, you look so happy, so…carefree.  Don't remember de last time I saw you look like dat.  Makes me envious, really."

       "Envious?  Why?"

       "Wish I'd been able to make you dat happy," he confessed.

       "You did, Remy," she replied quietly, but he did not look back into her face as she spoke.

       "Mebbe, for a li'l while.  But whenever we started t' feel happy together, somethin' always came along to make us _unhappy again.  I don't blame you for wantin' to forget dat part of your life."_

       "Remy, ah don't want…Ah never _have_ forgotten," she returned, looking down into her lap. "Ah just…after everythin' Irene did to me, to _us_, even to the others…ah needed to try and get over everythin', all the pain, all the guilt, all the suffering.  But not t' forget the good times.  An' we had some of the best times together, Remy."

       "Too bad they couldn' last," he muttered, a little bitterly.

       "Are you angry with me?" she asked softly.

       "No," he shook his head. "Just feelin' cheated.  From what could've been." He looked up at her. "Funny, chere.  When you said you were gonna be mine for keeps, we both believed it so damn hard, an' yet look how t'ings turned out for us."

       "Remy," she began, perfectly seriously. "Ah _am_ yours."

       "Don't play wit' me, Rogue," he frowned.

       "Ah ain't.  Remy, whatever you think, there's always gonna be somethin' b'tween us.  Whatever happens that bond'll always be there."

       "Den where does dat leave us now, chere?" he questioned. 

       "Ah'm not sure," she replied, averting her gaze as she drank some more wine. "All ah know is that… ah'm your friend.  An' ah'll always be there for you.  If'n you need me, that is."

       Need her?  Mon Dieu, did he need her right now!  And he didn't really appreciate her talking about platonic relationships at the present moment.  Especially when she was sitting there looking so damned beautiful right in front of him.

       "Likewise," he answered after a moment.

       "Thanks."

       Silence again.

       "Rogue," he suddenly broke out into the quiet. "Y'know…I still… care 'bout you, chere."

       There was sudden uncertainty in her green eyes. "Ah care 'bout you too, Remy."

       That wasn't what he meant.  They both knew it.  How to say it?  Twelve hours left and he wanted to say it so bad.  And there were her eyes, warning him, telling him that it wasn't right.

       "Remy," she began again quietly, "Ah ain't the same woman you knew three years back.  Ah've imprinted Irene's powers.  That's why ah had to leave everythin' behind, even if it meant ah _was running away.  Ah was too scared the face the things ah'd seen for the two of us." Her voice fell and suddenly she couldn't look at him; her brow furrowed. "Didn't you get it, why ah left?  Why ah came all the way over here?  It wasn't only us, as we were then.  It was our future."_

       "An' what did you see?" he asked softly.

       Her eyes went suddenly dull; the sparkle died like the embers fading from a fire.

       "Ah saw…nothin'," she said, after a short moment, her voice small.  Then she lifted her glass to her lips and downed the rest of the wine, before setting the glass carefully on the table. "You _know_ what the Diaires said.  That you're the Witness.  That one day, you're s'pposed to leave everythin' in this world an' this time, just like Bishop said you would.  That's why ah saw nothin'.  An' that's why ah had to let go."

       She paused, silent, still, as if assessing her admission.  He said nothing.  He could not break her loneliness with words.

       "But you waltz back into mah life again, Remy," she began again, quietly, not looking at him. "Why'd you have to do that?  Why'd you have to come like this an' spoil everythin'?  It ain't _fair_."

       "Rogue…" he began, reaching out instinctively to touch her face.  It was the simplest, easiest, most natural thing to do. There was only momentary surprise in her eyes as he smoothed his fingers across her cheeks and back towards the soft spot behind her ear.  For what seemed a long time they simply stared at one another in silence, and a calm fell over them, an understanding from which no words needed to be spoken.  Always, always it was this way, without change, without fail.  And, Remy thought, if their situation had been precarious before, now it was positively hazardous.  With that one single touch it was as though all the time they had spent apart seemed to have slipped away, and suddenly she smiled.

       "But you're here now," she began softly. "An' maybe it doesn't really matter anymore."

       "Mebbe dis be what destiny intended," he replied, before realising his mistake. "I'm sorry," he apologised quickly.

       "No," she answered quietly. "Maybe you're right."

       She reached out with her left hand, tracing the line of his chin lightly with her fingers, opening her concession, awakening every sense of his to her.  This was going from bad to worse and from good to better.  

They both knew one another far too well.

       Yet strangely, if there had been any inner battles for either to fight, neither showed any evidence of it.  For Remy himself, the dilemma was only a trivial one because he knew that even though the spiral could only go downward, in her presence and with her skin against his, nothing else really mattered.  It was hardly conscious that they inched towards one another, that his fingers wound further to nestle in her hair, that her own hand dropped from his jaw to his shoulder and grasped him lightly there, and that there was a memory in her touch.  A memory that did not seem to be a memory at all, but a sign, a signal from a past that now merged into the present, making it all the more artless that she should raise her lips to his, and that he should bend forward to accept them.

       But in that one seamless moment neither thought, knowing only to what end the sum of their words, their gazes, their touches could lead them.  They kissed with a slowness and familiarity born of a reassurance that the past had already asserted their love; and that the future, for once, was certain.  And it was that certainty that caused them both to resist, to pull apart, to begin to rationalize all over again.

       "We shouldn' be doin' dis," he murmured, perusing her face lazily, smelling the heady aroma of her perfume.  Only now did the danger that had lain concealed all day long show itself for what it was – the risk that they might find one another, and lose one another, and that there might never be a chance to begin the search all over again.

       "Ah know," she half-whispered in agreement.

       Again they gazed at one another, silent, assessing, their faces close, warm.  If there was ever a moment they could have stepped back it was that one; yet in that solitary space in time, so close and yet so far apart, every motionless second conspired to draw them back together again.  Looking into one another's eyes, both knew it; unable to help herself she raised a hand against his neck, fingers light yet not uncertain, moving upward softly, gently caressing the base of his jaw.  Inexorably, in that one movement their fate was sealed.  They kissed again, and this time the promise of the first unfolded in the second, compelling them away from reason, so that her hand went behind his neck, so that he reached out for her with both arms and pulled her to him, suddenly inflamed at the meaning of this, their embrace.

       Nothing had changed.  Nothing had been lost, or discarded, or thrown away.  That was the meaning of it all.  That against all the odds, against all the obstacles time and space had thrown against them, they still loved one another, and suddenly Remy was so certain, more certain of this and them than he ever had been in his life.  He _knew_ her, body, heart, mind, soul.  Even if he had wanted to he could not unlearn the knowledge of her and all that she was.  And now that knowledge intoxicated him, filled him with love and hope.

       They shouldn't have been doing this.

       It hardly mattered.

       He released her mouth, gently kissing her chin, pausing to look into her eyes before moving down to the smooth line of her jaw, his hands gently rubbing the undulating arc of her back.   The warmth of their contact spread through him like wildfire, kindling in him the familiarity and comfort that he found in her body.  Three years, three years, he thought, and he still remembered, still remembered so vividly that at once he was awed and quieted, aroused and assuaged of all troubles.  The years of their separation slipped from them like sand through their fingertips; gently she kissed his hair, letting him re-familiarize himself with the shape of her, the taste and scent of her, before realising that he had recalled all these things already, with a sharpness of clarity that left her breathless.

       Unwilling he pulled away, still only inches from her face, gazing at her while he ran his hands through the silken length of her hair.  For a while he was content to savor the comfort of their closeness, to take her in, to slacken the pace of his sudden desire to be with her in every way that had been denied him for so long.

       "Dis crazy," he murmured after a moment, unable to tear his gaze from the brilliant green that so entrapped him.

       "Maybe," she agreed, leaning in to press light kisses against his lips. "But ah never knew a crazy that felt so right."

       "Me neither," he replied, gently stroking her leg, caressing her thigh, upward to the swell of her hip.

       "Maybe it _is_ fate."

       "Mebbe it is."

       Gotta stop rationalizing, he thought, we both know where dis be leadin' anyways.

       "Mebbe we should…y'know…" he continued, nuzzling his cheek against her own.

       "Hmm.  Maybe we should."

       There was no more absolute form of insanity, but for some reason it was entirely logical.  She stood up quickly, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet, linking his fingers with her own, kissing his knuckles softly as she led him to the bedroom.  Such warmth, such openness she showed him!  Never at one single point in their shared past had she shown him how uncomplicated her love could be.  Without shyness or aggression she guided him onward; and when the door was shut behind them she slid into his embrace with the uncontrived tenderness of one whose love, whose desire was unconditional.  

       They kissed, unclothing one another, drawing back only to look into one another's eyes, no lust, no desperation, no coercion.  Nothing forgotten, only left behind, to be picked up where they had left it to remain.  Naked he gazed over her, the silver smoothness of her flesh in the darkness, taking in her beauty, her softness, the exquisite simplicity of all that she was.  In that one moment when they looked upon one another, that moment of unforced withdrawal and impulsive impulsion towards one another, the absurdity of their lengthy separation seemed laughable.

       "Why did I let you go?" he murmured quietly, drawing his arms about her waist.

       "For the same reason ah left," she answered softly, folding her own smooth arms about his neck. "An' the same reason why we're here now."

       She kissed him softly, then released him and took him by the hands to lead him to the bed.  Wordlessly she lay against the covers, inviting him with her eyes, and he followed her, acquiescing.  There was nothing constrained, nothing to press or urge him to take her but the love he held for her, and in that there was no violence, no aggression.  To be there with her was simply the way it had to be; to fit there so perfectly against her was to slip back into the place that had been made for him since their very first meeting.  All the time that had passed and yet they came to one another as old lovers; all the times they had made love and yet now everything felt so new, so unique and untrammeled.  He knelt before her, drinking in every curve of her, every detail of the body he knew so well.  Whichever man laid claim to it, whoever would dare to call her his own, however momentary, it didn't matter.  _He_ would be her first, her last.  She belonged to him, body and soul, just as he had given himself to her.  Like a light she called to him, godly, ethereal, otherworldly.  For this one short space in time, never to be recalled, he would worship her.

       Leaning in he took her arm, kissing the length of it slowly, unhurried, wanting first to savour the shape and texture of her, to commit it to imperfect memory, crossing the soft cool skin of her bicep, the crook of her elbow, the small, thin wrist and the warm palm of her hand.  Gently she curled her fingers about his cheek, bringing him towards her, pulling his face to hers and their mouths into a languid embrace.  He felt her hands in his hair, then on his back, holding him closer, drawing him into her. But he resisted, sitting up, warning her with his eyes.  She hung back, understanding, running her hands over his chest and stomach instead, marking him with her fingers as he sat for a moment, considering the neat flow of her throat and collarbone and her breasts, downward to slight arch of her stomach and the surge of her hips to the hidden folds of her warm center.  

He would travel them, unhindered; he caught her eyes before leaning inward once more to kiss her, moving wordlessly to begin the journey of her body, kissing her throat and feeling the tremulous breaths that formed inside upon his lips.  Slowly he skirted the line of her collarbone, the soft flesh near her armpit where the curve of her breast began, following the arc downward before lathing his tongue over the delicate crest of her nipple.  She sighed, reaching out to hold him to her, rubbing her leg against his as he suckled gently on her while stroking her other breast lightly, before moving on to also claim it with his mouth.  Dieu, but she was beautiful, so perfect, so fine, so rare.  So let him show his devotion of her, his adoration.  No other way was good enough.  No other woman was so worthy.  He would make love to her without consideration for his own pleasure; let her take from him selfishly.  He did not care as he lavished kisses downward again, over the taut line of her stomach, the dip of her navel, the slight swell of her belly and further, to where his journey could only be drawn to its sweet conclusion.  He paused there before her, scenting her aroma, recalling, eyes closed.

"Remy…"

She spoke his name for the first time, a call, a warning, a plea.  How could he refuse?  Gently he wound his arms about her thighs, took her buttocks in his hands, lifted her to his face as a chalice to his lips.  He kissed her lightly at first, reacquainting himself with the unique contours of her, her fragrance, her flavour.  Then, familiar, he opened his mouth, tasting her with his tongue, and she moaned, long and low, unbidden.  Heartened, he persisted, sampling her moist heat, the essence of the desire she felt for him.  On one level this was pure and primal, inexplicable.  On another it was both his atonement and his homage, both paid to her for the pain of their separation and her unaffected acceptance of his love.  And when he felt the pressure of her hand in his hair, and the movement of her hips as she pushed to seek his kiss, that too was merely an acknowledgement of his worship. In three long years he had never felt so happy as in that singular moment.

And so he continued, wanting her to know first, to see the end and the other side of that grief she had called her own for far too long.  With lips and tongue and mouth he milked it all away, that loneliness, that sorrow, replacing it with the comfort of pleasure, of the security he could give her.  These paths he had travelled before – he knew, invariably, where each and every part of her led; but rarely had he taken a route so sweet.  He heard the sudden raggedness of her breaths, the soft, shallow cries in her throat; her hand pressed him to her, the muscles in her thighs and buttocks tensed.  But she held on, held on so fiercely, so unwillingly that he almost admired her for it, for the utter shamelessness of her greed.  And then she surrendered, letting go yet holding onto him with her legs as he received her, and then it was over and she went limp, sinking back into the bed, panting.

He moved upward, drawing himself against her damp skin, somehow finding her lips and rejoining his mouth to hers.  Her arms went about him, hungry yet tender, and he pulled back, for the first time realising his own arousal.  In the darkness he could feel her eyes on his, the trust that emanated from her, the gratitude, the longing, the love.  Gently her soft, smooth legs wound about his, welcoming him into her.

"Remy, please…" she begged, and he needed no other urging.  He entered her slowly, carefully, feeling no need to hurry, not wanting for it to end.  They both whimpered, lost to the world yet found by each other, needing no other reassurance.  There was no incentive to hasten their union.  For one thing it could be another three years before their next chance to love came around.  For another thing it felt too damn good for the whole thing to be over in two seconds and to be wasted.  Remy sank into her, pushing lightly at her as he lay cradled against her, kissing her cheek gently, caressing her hair.

"Hm, dis be nice, don' you t'ink?" he murmured, fondling the nape of her neck absently.

"S' always nice with you, Remy," she replied, somewhat breathlessly.

He shifted position slightly, tracing the backs of his fingers lightly against her breasts.

"Ditto." He paused as she pressed against him impatiently, folding a leg about his waist. "S' always so damned _good_," he continued again through gritted teeth. "I'm not goin' too slow for you am I, chere?"

"Not unless you're wantin' to drive me absolutely crazy," she answered candidly.

"Patience, _femme," he breathed. "I'm experimentin'."_

"So am ah."

He laughed softly, unable to help himself.  This had to be the giddiest day of his life.

"What?" she asked, looking into his eyes again.

"_Mon Dieu, but I love you," he murmured._

She half-smiled, pecking his lips affectionately. "Ah know," she returned, her tone trailing off, telling him in no uncertain terms that now was no longer the time to speak.

They fell silent, exploring one another, tentatively at first, finally eking out a rhythm to suit them both.  With a continued slowness they played out the beat of their song, looking into one another's eyes, measuring each wordless pleasure they gave one another.  For once neither of them wanted it to be over, finding something secure in the protective cocoon of their embrace.  But no such thing could last; besides, he had waited for too long – how could he prolong his desire any longer?  With a sweet deliciousness he too abandoned himself to the inevitable, pouring himself into her with soft cries of gratitude.  A moment later she followed him, moaning quietly, rocking against him and cradling him in her arms, pressing her damp cheek to his.

For a long while after no words were spoken, and all that pervaded was the darkness, and their embrace.

One age-old ritual had been finished; one day had ended, and one night; so too had the cycle of years that had drawn them apart.

***********

**NB: -** In an ideal world, this fic would have ended here.  But this ain't an ideal world, and as always, I felt the need to add a conclusion that I'd originally intended to be ambiguous.  Somehow my fanfics always go from gritty to gooey.  Like some soft-centered candy – you just end up getting the goo stuck to your teeth when you get to the inside.  Well, I hope I did right by everyone's expectations anyhoo.  I did try not to make it _too_ crass…Whether I succeeded or not is another thing :/

If you'd like to keep the conclusion up to your imagination, I suggest you stop here.

If you'd like to find out what happens the next morning, you can read on in Chapter Three!

-Ludi


	3. Part Three

There had always been something about waking that Remy had hated; yet equally, there had always been something about it that he had loved.  Waking meant getting up and facing a new day; it also meant lingering on in that soft, warm space between sleep and willful consciousness.  It was the security of such bliss that he loved; it was the knowledge that such security could not last that he hated.

That was the reason why he was lying there now, this ominous churning feeling in his gut.  Security was one thing, and right now there was no other place he'd rather be than in bed.  Getting up was another, and although it was the logical, rational, run-of-the-mill thing to do, for once it meant that he had a hell of a lot to lose.  This was today's space between sleeping and waking, and he spent it silently weighing up the cards Lady Luck had dealt him.  Queen of Hearts and Jack of Spades.  Two of Hearts and King of Diamonds.  What else was there?

He ruminated over it, the various combinations, until he had a stack so precarious that it could only topple over.  Why did he always come back to the damn cards?  Why?  They didn't mean anything, just like those damned Diaries didn't mean anything.

Screw the cards.  Screw the Diaries.  The decision lay with him.

"Merde…" he muttered to himself; but still he lay there, unwilling to make up his mind.

He knew she was awake.

He could_ feel her wakefulness, even as she lay there in the crook of his arm; he knew too that the same hopes and fears were going through her own mind.  If only she were asleep.  If only he could get up and tiptoe away like the coward he was without her even noticing.  If only he would stop thinking of if only's, because he knew that if he did happen to tiptoe away, he'd only have to take one look back into her face and he'd be running right back to her to lie by her side._

No – there was no use in mulling over it.  He _had to catch that plane and he had to return to the US.  They'd both known the score, from the very moment they had crossed paths again.  They had known the dangers, the risks, the consequences.  They had had every chance to step away, and in the end they'd made their decision despite knowing the price they would have to pay.  They'd had their one night of forbidden pleasure – they'd made their choice as adults and had to accept the repercussions as adults._

In other words, it was a damn fine mess they'd both gotten themselves into.

He sat up, slowly, and her arm fell limply from its place about his chest, landing somewhere uncertainly in his lap.  There was something unwilling in the action as she let go of him, yet something akin to a surrender.  In moving her arm she had left him free to walk away; in leaving it in his lap she had left her invitation open to him.  He looked down into her hand for a moment, hesitant.  Palm upward, fingers curled – an offer.  He considered accepting, reaching out for her hand with his own; but he knew he could not.  Without words he shifted sideways from under the covers and out of bed.

She sighed, relinquishing him, and he heard her move, for the first time betraying her wakefulness outwardly as he searched for his clothes and began to dress again regretfully.

"Do you have to go so soon?" she asked quietly from behind him.

"Have to get my stuff ready," he explained, pulling on his shirt and doing the buttons up from the bottom. "Not to mention checkin' out of de hotel and checkin' in at de airport."

"Don't you want anythin' to eat before you go?" she persisted.

"No t'anks, I'll grab somethin' on de way out."

It was getting easier the more he talked.  Just so long as he didn't look at her.

"Don't go, Remy," she said at last, after a momentary silence.  He paused, frowning.  Up until that moment everything had been going so well.  But who was he kidding?  How on earth was he supposed to just walk out of there without even making eye contact with her?  He turned, slowly.  She was still lying half under the covers, her head leaning against her hand, looking up at him beseechingly.  Dammit, day or night she was just so damned perfect – nothing on this godforsaken earth could change it.

"I can't stay, chere," he replied quietly.

"You _can," she answered, pleading. "Cancel your flight, stay with me.  At least for a couple more days."_

"I can't cancel, not at dis short notice," he explained, as calmly as he was able despite the agony her distress was causing him. "B'sides, I got commitments to keep, t' de Guilds.  I can't let them down."

"Is it so important?  Please, Remy, just a few more days, so's we can finally just sit down an' work this out…"

"Rogue," he interrupted her, before regretting the cutting note to his tone.  He sighed and walked over to the edge of the bed, took her hands in his. "Rogue, you _knew_ dis had to happen.  We _both did.  We gotta accept dis like adults.  I can' stay, not now.  It's too soon, an' dere's too much at stake."_

"Then at least let me go with you t' the airport," she replied, searching his eyes. "Lemme see you off."

He hesitated before answering. "No, chere.  I'd rather you didn't.  It'll just make t'ings worse.  I…I don' wanna be leavin' you, chere.  Please don' make t'ings any harder than dey are already."

"Ah love you," she said, her eyes filling. "An' you want me t' stay here and watch you walk outta that door without me havin' said a proper goodbye?  It ain't fair, Remy!  Ah _love_ you!"

He squeezed her hands, willing her not to cry, not for him and not for them.

"Rogue, _mon coeur, b'ecause o' last night, I finally got round t' figuring somethin' out.  The future's blank, chere.  Ain't such a t'ing as destiny.  The future's what we make of it.  That's why you saw nothin' for us.  B'cause we ain't written it yet." He released a hand, gently reached out to stroke her cheek. "An' that's why I'm gonna come waltzin' back for you, chere."_

She looked at him – sudden hope sprang into her eyes. "You will?"

"Yes.  When everythin's sorted in Nawlins, I'll come back for you, I promise, chere."

He leaned in, kissing her softly; but in both their hopeless desperation they reached out for one another, remembering, knowing; what was intended to be tender became a thing of passion, and for a short time he would have abandoned all resistance and climbed back into her eager arms.  But even as the kiss ended they both knew that their minds had been made up, and she sighed, looking into his face intently, rubbing the back of her hand across his cheek.

"Don't keep me waitin' too long, cajun," she murmured.

"I won't," he assured her, running his hand through her hair one last time, looking into her eyes, imprinting that last image into his mind lest he should ever forget it.

He stood up.

No cards, no diaries, no fate, no destiny…

It was easier then to walk out that door.

*

**Endnote:**  The end.  Well, not actually – I did write another 'episode', but kinda ran out of steam on that because it was getting way too cliched (well, more than it already was anyways ;).  So you can decide whether the Remster manages to do right by Rogue or not J

BTW, I was very pleased to showcase my beloved London in this piece.  All the places used in this fanfic are real places.

Oh, and the moral of this story is – don't drink wine when an ex-boyfriend comes to stay.  _Drink responsibly.  Okay?_ I'm not kidding.

Okay, I'm kidding really. But if you can discover the real moral of the story, I shall be suitably impressed…:)

[Remy: There are _morals_ in dis here story???

Ludi: Shuddup!]


End file.
